It seems rather a small thing to write about?
Ah, they are these _bits of_ struggles in which we learn to fight the great ones; perhaps these bits of struggles, more than the great ones, make up life.
"You're real good," said Gypsy, surprised; "I think I'd rather not.

It isn't really half of it mine, and I don't want to say so.

But it's just as good in you." At that moment, though neither of them knew it was so, one thought was in the heart of both.

It was a sudden thought that came and went, and left a great happiness in its place (for great happiness springs out of very little battles and victories),--a memory of Peace Maythorne's verse.

The good Christmas time would have been a golden time to them, if it taught them in ever so small, imperfect ways, to prefer one another "in honor." One day before it came a sudden notion seemed to strike Gypsy, and she rushed out of the house in her characteristic style, as if she were running for her life, and down to Peace Maythorne's, and flew into the quiet room like a tempest.
"Peace Maythorne, what's your favorite verse ?" "Why, what a hurry you're in! Sit down and rest a minute." "No, I can't stop.